


i'm falling, i'm sorry

by dontknowjack



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Real Life, Self-Harm, Sleepy Bois Inc Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Technoblade Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, comfort at the end i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:29:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29549349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontknowjack/pseuds/dontknowjack
Summary: He curls into himself.He hates this. Hates how his mind pulls him down at every step, weighing him down to the ground. Hates how he sits on the edge, every night and every day, but stuck by the bonds that he had foolishly made on a better day.He's not sure when it started, just an urge that grew, festered. Something that whispered in his mind, hung over his mind, pressing down on his chest until he couldn't breathe. A jeering voice followed him wherever he went, a shadow that he could never get rid of.Techno pushes everything away, and he goes on.Or; Techno can't do this anymore.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 264
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	i'm falling, i'm sorry

**Author's Note:**

> hii this is literally. so ooc but i Do Not give a fuck <3
> 
> and yes this is probably one of the only times i'll write sbi angst lmao- this was a request from [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29406192/chapters/72241854) anyways.
> 
> tw: depression, self harm, suicidal thoughts, unwillingness to eat.
> 
> please be careful reading !!

He curls into himself.

He hates this. Hates how his mind pulls him down at every step, weighing him down to the ground. Hates how he sits on the edge, every night and every day, but stuck by the bonds that he had foolishly made on a better day.

He's not- he doesn't- he can't think, not when every moment contradicts himself and he just wants everything to end, wants everything to be over because it's just too much and nobody understands and he's all alone and what's the point-

There's one thing that's clear, though, and that is that he hates himself.

He's not sure when it started, just an urge that grew, festered. Something that whispered in his mind, hung over his mind, pressing down on his chest until he couldn't breathe. A jeering voice followed him wherever he went, a shadow that he could never get rid of.

Techno pushes everything away, and he goes on.

Monotone, everything was so blank and empty and white, time whirling past him in both a din of laughter and brightness and a taken warm hand and a silence, stretching on, black and white and grey.

As he walks past crowds, hands cracking and dry and fingernails digging into skin, he keeps his head down, blends in. Just another kid who follows the crowds, just another everyday person that nobody sees.

He picks at his food, unwilling to eat. There's no- he doesn't know why, he just stares at the plate of food before him and knows he can't. He can't, as he clutches at his stomach which begs for food that he denies, the feeling gnawing at his insides but wanted for all the same.

Wilbur forces him to eat, though, when he's at home. Sits with him at the dinner table until he reluctantly puts the tasteless food in his mouth, and he forces himself to swallow.

(He throws up most of it anyways, when Wilbur leaves.)

He hides in his room when he can, where Wilbur and Tommy and Phil, the only people keeping him afloat in a crashing sea, do not venture. He says enough to be okay, does enough for his actions to be normal, but it _isn't enough he's never enough why did he ever think that they'd want him, of all people, please he's drowning and there's no one there-_

He's okay though, he swears he is. He's not crying to himself in the dark as he snatches any semblance of warmth that disappears at the slightest of touches; he's not staring at pale blank arms like a canvas waiting to be filled, ~~_he wants it, he hates it, because tearing and biting at his skin isn't enough anymore to jolt him out of his suffocating trains of thoughts anymore-_~~

Until he goes too far, ignores his work one time too many because his body is numb and he can't find anything to pull himself back up with, no matter how small. Because he can't do it, because darkness claws at his mind and envelopes him, because he can't sleep and can't do anything and it's not his usual procrastination. It's a feeling, it's a will of-

He doesn't know. He just can't.

And then Phil of all people yell at him one day, and he breaks. Yells at him about why can't he do this, why is he taking so long to do things, about why are his goddamn grades sinking. And then Tommy joins in with a leering grin ~~_he's joking, you know he's joking, he's not serious_~~ that sinks into his skin, leaving him gasping for breath and face buried into hands as he tries to be quiet as he cries.

He gives up. Gives up on any semblance of being normal, gives up on the piling workload and stress because they're right, he can't do anything because he's worthless, alone, shattered. Unwanted.

He's shaking as his arms prickle uncomfortably and _he doesn't know what he's doing, and something tells him that this is dumb because this is dumb isn't it and so is he_ , and then his arm is dripping blood from bleeding cuts.

And as he slumps in the bathroom corner, droplets of so so red blood that he finds some sort of sick satisfaction in seeing splattered across white tile floors, this is what he wanted, grabbing his arm close to his chest, he laughs.

This is what he wanted, this is what he deserved. And he knows it’s wrong but he needs to, needs it to clear his mind, keep him here. It's only once, it's just once, he swears.

It's harmless.

Until its not, until it repeats, swirling into a cycle that he hates but loves but can never escape from. It's wanted but also not as cuts and scars mar his arms and thighs, as he tilts his head back and counts the tiles on the ceiling (there's twenty two, this he knows all too well), as he tries to hold on.

He can't.

He can't do this anymore; he never could.

There's something that tells him that maybe, just maybe, he could tell someone — he would have talked to Phil, but that was before. That was before Phil snapped and he stepped back and _Wilbur surely wouldn't want to help, too, because he's such a shitty brother and Tommy's just a kid and he'd just burden them if he tells,_ he knows. He can't- he knows that there's something wrong with him, that he's fucked up, that his thoughts _aren't good_ but he can't stop himself, can't stop himself from chasing it. Chasing the pain that hurting himself gives, the wounds stinging and bringing him out of his cloudy mind.

He _needs_ it.

Footsteps sound outside the bathroom, and he freezes, clutching desperately at his limbs. He looks at the door- he locked it, he knows he did, and then a knock sounds.

"Uhh... Hello? Who's in here?" The handle twists ever so slightly, and he watches as it turns, turns-

Rattles. The door doesn't creak open, and he breathes a sigh at relief, glancing at his arms anyway and tugging his shirt to hide his skin more. Thank goodness he hadn't done anything yet, thank goodness he hadn't drowned himself in a wave of crashing thoughts like he did sometimes. There were sometimes days when he hid in the bathroom, just simply curled into himself and staring at both everything and nothing.

He's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice the rattling of the doorknob until the sound grows and is followed by a creak and then-

The door swings open, and Wilbur stumbles into the room along with it. He turns his head to look for someone, and he can see as his eyes land on his pathetic form huddled in the corner, face paling. "Techno?"

His voice is a hushed whisper, a gasp of shock. Shit, shit, he messed up again, he-

He doesn't even realize how tightly he's gripping his forearms until a certain brother slides to a seat before him, looking hesitant but like maybe, just maybe he cares. As soon as the thought comes to mind, though, he's squeezing his eyes shut and berating himself, stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Hey there," Wilbur says, voice soft. "Want to tell me what's going on, maybe?"

He doesn't answer, just stares at his feet. What does he even say?

"...That's okay, if you don't want to. Talk right now, uh. Uh... want a hug?" He offers awkwardly.

He hesitates, then shakes his head, because he’s weak. He can’t do this.

"I don't," he swallows, mouth dry. "I don't, I don't think I can do this anymore, Wilbur, because it's all- I don't know, and I can't do anything and I'm falling and, and-”

He can’t get the words out, because how does he say it? How does he say that he’s fucked up and he can’t eat and he’s been _hurting_ himself, they’d all be so disappointed and he can’t-

“Hey, take your time, okay?” Wilbur’s familiar voice brings him out of his deeper panic, and he nods. Takes a deep breath before pulling back and mumbling, “I, uh…” He hesitates.

“I’ve been hurting myself,” he blurts, ignoring Wilbur’s reaction and rushes on. “And I know it’s wrong I guess but it just… it feels too good and it helps me keep a grasp on reality, y’know? I don’t know why, it’s just good and I want to stop but I _can’t,_ and I hate my head, it’s like I’m trapped there. And I hate it, and I hate myself, and I don’t _know._ And I just- I don’t want to eat, or breathe or anything anymore, you know? Because it’s just, I don’t know, Wilbur, what’s the point of it all?”

He can’t breathe, can’t think now. Just, a cold sharp mix of panic and relief because he finally told someone, he _finally told someone and-_

He finally told someone.

He can feel himself shaking, his body shivering in the cold. Can see golden yellow appearing out a blurring fog, a warm hand on his arm, a touch that pulls him back to reality and Wilbur’s chocolate-brown eyes, furrowed in worry as he bites his lip.

“I... I'm not the best at this, I'm sorry. But Phil can help, yeah? I swear, we all love you, and there's something for you here. They were worried as fuck, you know that right? Phil just had a bad day, I'm sorry. Uh... Want a hug?” He offers again, and this time, he shakily accepts, hesitantly nodding before he's pulled into one, warm arms wrapping around him as he hides in the comforting summer yellow wool of Wilbur's sweater. Breathes in his familiar cinnamon smell, fingers trembling as they grab at soft fabric.

It’s not a sure outcome, a swift turn; but maybe, just maybe there is a brighter day ahead for him.

**Author's Note:**

> fuck writers block sdfksfj,, lmao i rushed the ending and i hate it, can you tell-


End file.
